Just a Little Bit of Hate
by Liana Legaspi
Summary: AU in which, without gods, Annabeth is a troubled child and - somehow - Percy turns out all right. / The tables are turned and Percy Jackson tutors Annabeth Chase.


Author's Note: This was actually a writing assignment for an Intro to Creative Writing Class that I'm taking, and after finishing it, I noticed that Vi and Cole (the names I actually used for my project) were similar to Annabeth and Percy with switched personalities, in an AU where there are no gods.

I haven't finished _Blood of Olympus _yet—shame on me—but at the same time, I'm a little sad to. Just not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

Anyways, here's my AU of Percy and Annabeth if all went well and they weren't cursed with godly blood.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Just a Little Bit of Hate<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>A LIST OF THINGS I HATE<strong>

**IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER**

1. Percy Jackson.

2. History assignments.

3. How I just downloaded twenty new songs onto my phone—_legally, this time_—and it's all for nothing.

4. Footballs.

5. And myself. (Since we're already on the topic anyways.)

There's a cocky asshole staring at me through my trifold, and for a second, I'm seriously contemplating flipping him off, but I don't. Because even though only my hands and lower body are showing, everyone would know it's me due to the fact that I'm probably the only girl stupid enough to call our school's golden boy a cocky asshole and then proceed to flip him the bird.

I play it smart and keep my hands clenched around my history project and count up to ten, like my counselor always tells me to do. Only problem is, I'm at seven, and I still want to wring this guy's neck.

There's a football, a trifold, and my newly-shattered phone between us, its glass screen cracked into six pieces—and it's all 'cause of this dick right here. This idiot who thought playing fucking _catch_ in the middle of school was a good idea.

Now, there're only two things going through my mind: _RIP iPhone, you've served me well_ and _He's so fucking dead._

I grit my teeth so hard, one of my molars cracks.

_Eight_.

Here's the crash course on this guy: his name's Percy Jackson, he's the captain of the football team, he's got the second highest GPA in our class, he's pretty much every principal's fantasy, and if it wasn't classified as "inappropriate behavior" in the student handbook, girls would be flinging their panties at him. Some people are just born perfect, live perfect, and Percy's the poster child for perfect.

Hell, the first time I met him, we were six, and he scored a touchdown after sprinting from the opposite end zone, flapping his arms like duck from either excitement or the fear of being chased by twelve other boys—I couldn't tell. I remember everything that day: Percy was carried off on his dad's shoulders, his whole team trudging after him, patting him on the back, like he was some sort of hero, and all I could think was, so?

Even after eleven years, the memory still leaves a funny taste in my mouth.

I struggle to keep my face blank. He struggles to apologize.

"Crap," he says, running a hand through his hair, "I wasn't looking..." He's making random gestures with his hands now, and it's pathetic.

It's actually really, really stupid because we both know what happened: he had a bad idea but thought it was a good idea, and I am now phone-less. I stare at the sophomores' art projects displayed above the windows so I don't have to look at him.

"Sure, Boy Scout," I mutter, already turning to go. "'Course you didn't."

I know deep down that he's telling the truth. Percy might not be my favorite person—understatement—but I do know he wouldn't pick on someone just for the fun of it. None of this makes me consoles me though.

I'm running on two hours of sleep. My hair's pretty much one big icicle 'cause I didn't have time to dry it before I sprinted to the bus stop with a piece of toast in my mouth and mismatching shoes. I plan on getting this day over with as soon as possible and just avoid…well, everything really.

Apparently, Captain Green-Eyes over here doesn't understand that. He reaches forward for my Civil War presentation, made up of low-quality photos I found on the internet and facts I plagiarized off of Wikipedia. I _know_ he's probably grown up his entire life being taught to hold open doors for girls and to always be a "gentleman," but for some reason, this just makes me angrier.

I yank my trifold away from his big, grimy hands and in hasty, wild surge of fury and drive for justice (or whatever you want to call it) stab my high heeled shoe straight through his football. It's a bitchy move, and I know it, but damn, my blood is boiling now, and this is all his fault to begin with anyways. My phone for his football—I'd say we're almost even. Not really, but close.

Percy's face crumples like he's in pain, and he mumbles something about a one-of-a-kind, Brett Favre signature.

I'm feeling almost successful.

_Nine_.

Percy hesitates just a second before running after me, but he's looking much less charitable and more like someone's holding a gun to his head. "Wait," he grinds out, "Annabeth—let me help you with that."

"I'm good," I tell him curtly before tacking on a quick, "Thanks."

I'm thinking that maybe if I make him feel appreciated for at least trying to help me, he'll just go away.

It doesn't work though.

He grabs one corner of my presentation, and you know, maybe if it_ wasn't_ being held together by glue, spit, and chewing gum, it might've lived long enough to get me a solid _C-_, but I'm what teachers call a degenerate and today, Percy is as close as you can get to a walking weapon of mass destruction. The trifold rips into two pieces, one side dangling from Percy's hand and the other two lying on the ground along with my phone.

My hands are shaking, but it's not 'cause of the shitty air conditioning in here. "That level of stupidity," I grit out, "should be illegal."

We stare at each other for a good long while, and a mugshot of Adolf Hitler falls off Percy's half of my poster and floats pitifully to the ground. There's a deflated football shish kabobed onto my shoe, my history project just died before my eyes (although, I mean, I don't really know how Hitler ties into the Civil War, so at least I have an idea of what grade I'd get), and Percy's looking at me with these stupid deer-in-the-headlights eyes.

I plant my feet apart, aware that yes—I'm a virtual toothpick in comparison to Percy, but hardly makes any difference right now. I'm pissed. He's guilty.

Percy opens and closes his mouth like a fish, unable to get any words out of his throat. And all I see is red. I ball my hands into fists, already resigned with my reservation in hell.

_Fucking ten_.

I deck him right then and there.

* * *

><p>We stare at each other for a full two minutes before either of us blink.<p>

Granted, there's not a whole lot to say. Roughly ten minutes ago, I body tackled our school's quarterback in a hall full of witnesses, and so far, it hasn't earned me any brownie points. Figures. My face feels hot, I really could've used a restroom break right, oh—about half an hour ago, and my knuckles are bruised from where I made contact with Percy's goddamn pointy cheekbones.

I am currently the embodiment of defeat.

But to her credit, Mrs. Walters took in the scene of me clawing at Percy's face and his three friends desperately trying to pry me away with little more than a slow, tired blink. See, Mrs. Walters trained most of her life to be a police officer, but when that fell through, she became a high school principal instead, which I guess is close enough if you think about it long enough.

I don't know. I feel like the lack of a taser is a pretty big disadvantage.

"Miss Chase," she finally begins.

I automatically sit up straight because Mrs. Walters is big and Russian and you do not simply ignore a woman like her.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt," she says, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt, "and assume you already know what I'm going to say?"

I genuinely contemplate it for a moment. "It's wrong to hit jackasses who completely deserve it, and I've just earned myself detention for 'inappropriate conduct'?"

I realize it's a rhetorical question as soon as the words leave my mouth. I realize even later that I'm talking to the principal.

Shit.

Mrs. Walters presses her lips into a thin line, and when she speaks, it's in the same clipped, rehearsed tone as always, but her accent's coming out a little thicker than normal, so I guess she's annoyed. "So long as you wear that school uniform, you represent this school. Scholarship student or not, you must abide by our rules and use proper conduct when in disagreement with another student. You understand this, don't you? There are many, many others that would kill for the chance to attend Tate Academy. It would be in your best interest to not waste this opportunity."

Something about her expression changes, eyes softening with something almost like worry. "Honestly, Annabeth, I don't understand your…"

My eyes glaze over and I unconsciously start running my thumb along the finish of her desk. Computer keyboard perfectly cleaned, other than a few letter white letters that had been worn off through too much use, papers stored neatly I their respective drawers, blinds pulled down even though it was a nice day…. It's always like this.

Every time I've come here, it's never looked any different, but I can't help but feel that something's off.

I shake off the feeling of unease and finally take the time to mourn the loss of my phone and history project.

I'm still a little angry to be honest, and I kind of want to punch his stupid face again. Only, now that the adrenaline's gone, my hand's hurting like crazy, and I've learned that hitting him pretty much equates to smacking a brick wall… So my options are currently non-existent.

I shove my hands into my pockets and listen up when Mrs. Walters stops scolding me and starts handing me my punishment.

"…And, with that said, I expect to see you scrubbing the graffiti off of the bathroom stalls and scraping off the gum from the bleachers this Saturday." She rifles through a stack of paper quickly before giving me one last flippant glance. "With Percy."

I look up so fast, it's amazing I don't get whiplash. Something that feels like a mix of disgust and absolute horror settles in my stomach. I taste a bit of that hamburger I had earlier for lunch. If Mrs. Walters is finding any satisfaction in seeing my reaction, she's not showing it.

Bitch is probably cackling on the inside.

"Well," I begin, pasting a flat grin across my face and leaning back, "why don't you just ask me to do something about the melting polar ice caps while you're at it?"

Other than me suffering through long, boring speeches about community service and "bettering our society" (given by yours truly, Percy Jackson), I've no idea what wasting an afternoon scrubbing away graffiti will accomplish. Other than a possible/inevitable case of homicide between minors, I mean. This Saturday, if Mrs. Walters is actually stupid enough to allow this, there would be blood, and tears, and not necessarily mine.

"You've never done this before," I add, when she doesn't answer right away. I search her gaze. "It's always just detention or extra homework, you've never made me—"

"Miss Chase," she stops me. Mrs. Walters mulls over what she's about so say for a second, like she's trying to find a way to soften the blow somehow, "I'll be frank, solely because enough time has been wasted already and you won't accept what I have to say any other way." She leans forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands. "Annabeth, you're failing."

Suddenly I know what was off about the room before. I cringe at the manila envelope resting beside the picture of her and her husband inconspicuously. Like it's not my progress report, and for half a second I almost convince myself that it's not. Only, the look Mrs. Walters levels me with leaves no room for argument.

I know what kinds of grades I'll see if I opened the damn thing. A myriad of _C_s and _D-_s along with a single _A_ for art.

It's the report card expected of a scholarship student. Mrs. Walters and I both know this.

"Am I being expelled?" I challenge, like I don't care whether I get kicked out or not.

Mrs. Walters doesn't buy my act for a second. "No," she admits, and I try not to show my relief at those words. "But I doubt you'll be welcomed back next year either."

The sarcasm in my voice is so heavy, I almost choke on it. "Well, geez, now all my fears have been taken care of. Great pep-talk, Mrs. Walters."

She ignores me and continues on with her business. "Your studies in math and science have much to be desired. Your efforts in history are almost non-existent. I've talked to Coach Monroe, and he's said he's never seen set one foot into gym class—"

"I don't like sweat," I admit.

The principal shuts her eyes for a second. "However, your grades in Literature are passable and Mr. Shepherd has given you nothing but praise for your art." Her eyes go steely but not cold. "Here's my offer, Annabeth"—I raise an eyebrow when she uses my nickname—"if you can manage to pick up your grades by the end of the school year, there might—and I'm saying this tentatively—there might still be a chance for you attend next semester as well."

It's a good deal. An amazing deal actually. I know deep down I should take it before she changes her mind and kicks me out of the spot, but something holds me back.

"I still don't know what any of this has to do with Percy," I mutter.

"Oh, isn't it obvious?"

"If it was, I probably wouldn't be asking." I slump backwards and cross my arms over my chest. "Seriously, putting me and him in a room together? You're just asking for it. _Especially_ if there're toilets nearby…"

"Miss Chase," she says, forcing my attention back to her, "I don't know if you've been keeping track or if you're even aware of it, but if you haven't noticed, you've single-handedly managed to exhaust all the tutors available to you. One session and you sent them running each and every time."

"It could just be me, but I don't really appreciate being told I'm stupid by a girl who wears plaid and polka-dot together on her own free will."

I've pushed it again.

Mrs. Walters pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't care to know the circumstances of their resignation. The fact still stands, Percy Jackson's your only option at this point. You can try going learning on your own, but I think after this"—she taps my progress report—"we know that's a less than ideal choice of action."

I bit the inside of my cheek 'til I taste something metallic. "Percy Jackson?" I ask tiredly.

She doesn't nod or say anything, but her expression is enough confirmation. I groan into my hands and rub my temples. I don't like it. In fact, I hate it. The idea of being tutored by Percy makes my stomach churn—but so does the idea of not being welcomed back to school.

I look up at the principal through my fingers. "Does he know?"

She makes a contemplative noise. "I thought it'd be best if you asked him yourself," she said honestly. "Especially after…recent developments."

I flush and hide my banged up knuckles underneath her desk. "…I'd really rather not, Mrs. Walters. Even if he did offer to help me, I'd rather not."

Mrs. Walters's eyes flash dangerously, and I watch captivated as she slowly regains her composure. She meticulously tucks an imaginary straight hair into her bun. For a second, I feel she's honestly going to try to find some sort of middle ground between us…

"Well, if you're so adamant about this, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to call your mother in."

…But she's the principal, and she doesn't waste time searching for middle ground just appease some problem student.

My entire body feels like it's encased in ice.

"I'm sure we can figure something out," the principal continues reasonably.

"No," I say, too forceful. I swallow and will myself to sit back down. "No, that won't be necessary."

The thought of my mom coming here makes me dizzy. I curl my hands into fists, not because I'm angry, but to hide the way they tremble. I glare at Mrs. Walters, unsure whether to feel grateful that she wants me to stay so much or angry beyond all reason.

Whatever I felt towards Percy feels like friendly banter now.

Mrs. Walters smiles, but it feels more like she's baring her teeth at me. One lazy wave of her hand and the opening of a file cabinet is my cue to leave.

I stare at the tiled floors on my way out. I got an _F_ for my history project, my phone's lying somewhere in the hall, I'm having trouble straightening my fingers, and—I _think_—I just got blackmailed by my principal. I don't know if this is the universe's way of saying it disapproves of me or something, but if it is, I already knew that. I got the memo from when I was eight, no need to remind me.

I kick a locker so hard, the sound it makes echoes down the hall.

"Destruction of school property," a nasally voice notes, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "_Another _violation of the student handbook." Percy shuffles closer, so he's right behind me. "Step it up, Annabeth."

_You're kidding _me. I whirl around. There's a Band-Aid stretched across his nose, and I can't stop myself from glaring. One Saturday, fifty bleachers, twenty stalls, fucking Percy Jackson, and I'm supposed to _ask_ this guy to tutor me?

I need a hug.

Or maybe just a new phone.

* * *

><p>He's been scribbling on a ketchup-stained napkin for a few minutes now, when he <em>should<em> be helping me Windex this chick's number off the wall. Granted, I'm not really doing anything either—other than doodling on the boys' mirror (which in retrospect kind of defeats the purpose of our whole "cleaning" concept, but it's too late now anyways)—but he's using my eyeliner to write his note, and that shit's overpriced.

I remind myself of what Mrs. Walters told me. About how—although I'd rather drink sewer water—I did need Percy's help. Over the last few days, I'd gone to all my past tutors, asking them to try teaching me one more time, and I barely got a sentence out before they slammed the door in my face and bolted it shut.

Rejected by nerds—I mentally crossed it off my bucket list.

I trudge over to where he's perched on one of the toilets and lean against the stall door, and _try_ not to feel so infuriated. My life: casual conversations with boys in bathroom stalls, Dad would be so proud.

I bend over to take a peek at his note, but he doesn't react, like he's in his only little world. I get a brief mental image of runway models playing football in their Gucci stilettos and involuntarily shiver. God only knows what goes on in someone like Percy Jackson's head.

I glance once more at his work and try not to be impressed by the fact that, despite doing this all on a napkin, his handwriting looks like something out of a calligraphy book. I get the itch to scribble over it with marker. I silently bite into my apple, casually ignoring the fact that I'm snacking in a public restroom, and don't tearing my gaze away.

He writes:

_Dear person, animal, or police officer,_

_ I'd just like to say that, on the off-chance you found this on my cold, dead body, it was _probably _Annabeth Chase's fault. All right, so maybe it was a bad call to play football in the halls, maybe I should've taken her death glare as a warning sign and backed off, but I mean, I was trying to help._

_ Granted, if good intentions were all that mattered, there wouldn't be a need for hell, and—OK, some people are just born unlucky, and I'm one of them._

_ I am dead. I have died. By the time anyways finds this note, I'll probably be at the bottom of some river or in the back of Annabeth's trunk. There is no time for regrets because I am a dead man walking, and this means I've gone through thirteen years of school for absolutely no reason, my perfect attendance will just be a waste, and I still haven't kissed a girl—_

I sputter and chunks of apple go flying—on the napkin, in Percy's hair, down my shirt—everywhere. It's disgusting, and they don't resemble anything even remotely similar to an apple, but the look on his face is priceless.

He looks scandalized, and for the briefest second I feel a little sorry for him. You can only be so heartless towards someone with half-chewed fruit leisurely sliding down their forehead. I hand him his own napkin to wipe it up.

"Never kissed a girl," I snicker, "that's precious." I pat his head and watch as the muscles in his jaw bulge with barely restrained irritation, I'm vaguely aware that this isn't the best way to get him on my good side, but I brush that thought aside.

I'd get on my hands and knees later and pay for all my shit, but right now? I couldn't resist poking at him.

Percy snatches the napkin from me and grudgingly wipes off any traces of apple from his hair and face. "That was supposed to be my last will and testament, thank you," he mutters.

I tug a red sharpie out of my back pocket and draw a crooked smiley face on the door, ignoring the hard look he gives me. "Hate to break it to you," I start distractedly, "but I'm pretty sure the court doesn't accept smudgy, eyeliner-written, ketchup-stained napkin wills. Speaking of which"—I extend my hand palm up—"give it. Unless you're planning on actually putting it on, of course. I'd pay to see that."

Percy's cheeks puff out, and he lets out a frustrated sigh but doesn't say anything as he hands my eyeliner pencil over. "You really like to make things hard, don't you?" he says cautiously.

Half of me doesn't feel like talking, but the other part of me is also bored as hell. I nod after a moment of silence. I swing myself over into the next stall before taking a seat on the toilet. "It's one of my many charms," I tell him, crossing one leg over the other and grinning lazily from ear to ear, even though he can't see it.

"Actually," he interjects, "it's a little annoying."

"Bitch, I am adorable."

I wrinkle my nose a little. I'm pretty sure that was why one of my tutors gave up on me—I never actually called her by her name. Just Bitch. I don't know, I'd thought it was a cute nickname at the time.

Percy makes this strangled noise in the back of his throat, and I snort. He clears his throat before speaking. "Rule 16 of section B in the student handbook _clearly_ states that swearing is prohibited—"

"No one likes an encyclopedia," I inform him—although, I'd kind of need his annoying love for detail if I planned on picking up my grades. I spray so much cleaner onto the side of the stall, it trickles down to the tile floors. "Shut up and work on wiping those dirty words off the walls if you care so much."

I can't tell for sure, but I'm pretty sure that does the trick. Percy rubs the Sharpie written words off the walls with such a righteous fury, it makes squeaking noises. It's a while before either of us talks again.

"Sorry, by the way," he says slowly, like he'd been carefully mulling over his words.

I raise an eyebrow. "Sorry for breaking my phone, for depicting me in your death note as the bad guy—which, if I do say so myself, was so uncalled for—or for getting me in trouble, or—"

"Um, excuse me," Percy starts, a note of disbelief and something else that I can't quite name creeping into his voice. "I don't know, I might be mistaken since I seemed to be suffering short-term memory loss because _someone_ clubbed me over the head with her backpack, but I'm pretty sure—no, I'm effing _certain_—that getting us in trouble was solely on you."

I stop and peek out my head around the corner to look at him. "Did you just say 'effing?'"

Percy's face turns an impressive shade of pink, and he's not too far off from matching my pumps. If it were anyone else, I'd cut them some slack, but this is Percy Jackson here. _Someone_ needs to stick around to make things hard for him. Or else he'd prance through life in his squeaky clean, goodie shoes with nothing other than football on his mind, and _that_ mental image makes me want to vomit.

Percy waves me off. "Not the point."

I shrug before kicking off my heels to stand on the toilet, struggling to reach the _"Leroy was here-2002"_ near the ceiling. Percy, standing like, half a foot taller than me after climbing on top of his own toilet, reaches the somewhat risqué message above Leroy's.

I mumble something about never coming to school in flats ever again under my breath, and for a second, I think I see him biting back a smile. I roll my eyes. Idiot.

A thought hits me, and I snap my fingers. "Or is sorry for destroying my history project?"

Percy blinks down at me. "…You're still on that?"

I nod. "You'd be amazed at how long I can hold onto a grudge." I cast him a glare. "Watch your step, jackass."

He chokes on his own spit. You'd think, after knowing me for so long, he'd be used to my mood swings by now, but he's not. All thoughts of asking him to tutor me are completely forgotten as we stare long and hard at each other.

"I tried to carry your project for you!" he defends.

"Well, fucking whoop-dee-doo—look what _that_ accomplished!"

"If you weren't being so difficult—"

"I wasn't being difficult—I was being as not-difficult as I could possibly be. You were the one who ruined everything! If you had the maturity level higher than a seven year old to know that playing catch in the halls isn't a good idea…"

"_Now_ I'm immature? Asshole, jackass, idiot—would you please just pick one and stick with it?" For a brief second, Percy snaps out of his mini-tirade, like he's jotting down a quick mental note to wash his mouth with soap later, before shaking his head. "Dang, your rage is contagious."

"So I've heard." From my multiple therapist, teachers, and counselors. Anger management: two years running, and in the grand scheme of things, I've made only a tiny dent towards resolAnnabethng my "issues."

My psychiatrist still has hope.

I think it's a fucking waste of time and money. Because really, if I were to just give up anger, I'd come crawling back to therapy with something that much worse.

I don't realize Percy's been watching me intently until I glance up, and he's eyes immediately dart back to his task.

I give up on trying to erase Leroy's note. It'd been there since 2002, it clearly isn't going anywhere now. I breathe out roughly through my nose and cross arms over the thin wall between the stalls, facing Percy. I can't tell if he's ignoring me, or if he's just gotten really into his job.

"I'm going through withdrawal," I tell him off-handedly.

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in alarm, and the Windex bottle slips out of his hand and clatters on the floor. It feels like we're back in the hall again, after he smashed my phone with his heel. I stare in mute fascination. He was never this easy to rile up when we were kids. Granted, when we were kids, I didn't say random shit like I do now, but still, I got to say, Percy's sort of a wimp.

I shield my smile with my hand and watch him make random gestures with his hands as his voice fails him.

In the past half hour or so, Percy's been spat on, insulted, embarrassed, scared to the point where he decided to write a death note, and only now is the weight of sheer stress and bizarreness of this entire situation showing clearly on his face.

"Annabeth—I, oh God." He runs a hand through his hair, and shuffles his feet like he'd rather be anywhere but standing on a toilet, talking to a volatile girl who may or may not need to be institutionalized. "I'm really not, I don't—shouldn't you talk to, like, the school counselor about this? Or Mrs. Walters? Or a doctor? I—"

"No, dipshit," I interrupt, growling. I blow a blond lock of hair out of my face. "I mean," I stress, "it's been three days, thirteen hours, and like, two minutes since I've been able to call, text, or Snapchat anybody."

His face goes totally blank for a second. "You mean since your phone…"

I nod firmly. "Withdrawal," I define. I level a finger at him and lower my voice resentfully. "And it's_ your_ fault."

Percy's nostrils flare, and he manages to hop off the toilet without breaking eye contact with me. "I said I'm sorry," he fumes, stalking out of the stall. "How many times do you need me to say it? Five? Ten? Fifty?"

"If sorry was good enough, hell wouldn't be a thing!"

I don't know exactly when he moved over here, but now Percy stands in front of me, arms crossed, and we both pretend for a moment that I'm not still balancing on some toilet that the janitor has yet to clean.

He mumbles something under his breath about how Christians would beg to differ before speaking up. Percy's eyes flicker down at his feet for a second. "I didn't mean to break it," he says honestly.

This is probably where I'm supposed to forgive and forget, but I've never really been good at either. I wet my chapped lips and put a hand on my hip, before I can think of the consequences. Before I remember just _why_ I need this guy's approval so much.

I hold up a finger. "Correction: them—plural. You broke my phone and my presentation on the CiAnnabethl War."

The corner of Percy's left eye twitches uncontrollably. "Okay," he grits out, trying to keep his voice down, "one, I _wrote_ the CiAnnabethl War's Wikipedia page, so you were copying off of me anyways—"

Reality comes to screeching stop.

"Wait," I stop him, "you actually take the time to write history reports? For fun…"

Percy continues talking like I never said a thing. "Two, you literally stabbed my football with your high heel. _Who_—on this good earth—actually _stabs_ things with their shoes? I don't understand."

My face flushes, and step down to his level, the cold tile floors sending goose bumps up my legs. "Oh, yank the pole out of your ass already! Brett Favre sucks and you know it!"

Okay, admittedly, I know next to nothing about football or who Brett Favre even is, but for now, I at least pretend I do.

Percy flinches away from me before balling his hands into fists. "Take that back!" he yells.

"Make me!" I scream.

Percy presses him lips so tightly, they're almost white. "You're such a—"

"Well, you're a bigger one."

His eyebrows knit in confusion. "What? I didn't even finish—"

"You're still a bigger one!" I shriek, my voice rising so high that I sound crazy even to my own ears.

He doesn't have anything to say to that, which is good because I was running out of comebacks myself. We're huffing, glaring bullets, and overall thoroughly pissed at each other.

_Back to square one_, I can't help but think.

Percy calms down first, and I'm not surprised, a tad embarrassed though. Not that I'd let him know that. He squints at me, and the fact that I still can't quite guess what he's thinking makes shift uncomfortably.

"You're really a piece of work, aren't you?" he asks, and something tells me he's not trying to pick a fight or insult me. Not really.

Snide remarks are more up my alley anyways.

I sulk a little and put my pumps back on so at least the height difference isn't so bad. "If by that," I start, "you mean I'm God's masterpiece and gift to all mankind, then yes. Yes, I am."

His face is still a little red from our shouting match, but something in his eyes shift a little. The pure exhaustion of cleaning since 7:00 AM is getting to him. He cracks. And the next thing I know, there's a jock bending over, using his own knees to support himself as he laughs without a care in the world.

My eyes bug out of my head, and I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid snorting. It's not a pretty laugh. It's not even remotely _nice_ sounding. It's a mix of snorts, gasps, wheezes, and silence (when he's laughing so hard, he can't even make a sound). His face is red again, and I swear he looks like he's about to start crying.

A chill goes down my spine. I can't help but wonder if this is a nervous breakdown. God knows I've witnessed enough of those already. I'm literally about to steal his phone and dial _911_ when Percy finally stops sounding like a seal and starts taking deep, shuddering breaths.

He looks up at me, and the look on his face makes something squirm anxiously in my gut.

Percy smiles, still a little breathless, but—oddly enough—happier than I think I've ever seen him before. Something about that look is contagious though, and I find my lips starting to stretch back into a smile without even really meaning to. I grin, careful to angle myself away from both Percy and the bathroom mirror so he can't see it.

And then I stiffen.

I'm suddenly hyperaware of what I'm doing, and I slap myself so hard it echoes against the walls. Percy starts, smile faltering.

He's standing in my personal bubble, and I'm feeling more than a little claustrophobic.

"Are…" He inches closer, but glances at my face cautiously like I'm going to bite him which, all things considered, is a possibility. "Are you okay?"

I scowl at him, coughing even though I don't really need to. "Oh, I'm just _jolly_," I say, putting as much sarcasm into the word as I possibly can, "feeling spectacular over here. Don't you know? I just love wasting my afternoon in restrooms of the opposite gender with phone-breaking, football obsessed, high and mighty Ken dolls!"

I don't even realize I'm yelling by the end of my mini-mood swing. All I know is that my face feels like a volcano.

Percy regards me with something between puzzlement and tentative amusement. "Annabeth, are sure you shouldn't be on medication?"

I know he doesn't know about my therapy sessions—no one at school does. But still… I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat. Ice. That's all I feel.

And then the familiar burn of rage.

_That jerk!_

"There's nothing wrong with being volatile," I snap. I storm out the bathroom stall, my heels clacking against the ground and resonating like thunder. Percy instinctively raises his hands as I pass him. When I reach the door, I halt.

It's only now when Percy seems to realize that something's wrong. That maybe—just maybe—he'd stepped on a landmine. "Annabeth…?"

My hands curl around the doorframe. My legs shake. I turn around and yell so loud, it sounds more like an irate screech from the bowels of hell than anything else, "You're a cocky asshole!"

Before he can say or do anything, I slam the door shut behind me and march out towards the football field, into the rain, but not before snagging a metal spatula from the school cafeteria. I spend half an hour prying gum off the bottom of the bleachers furiously, ignoring the way my arms start to get sore after only the first ten minutes or so.

Just what is wrong with that boy?

First, he breaks my phone, then proceeds the try to make it up to me—then gets me in trouble. But _then_ tries to make it up to me again?! He knows I hate his guts. He's known since second grade when sabotaged his science project. Since I poured paint on his face and up his nose while he napped in daycare.

Hell, he was even writing his goddamn _will_. Is he suicidal? Is he actually a masochist?

Or is it really mentally achievable for someone to be so stupid, yet still have a 4.0 GPA?

I sigh, lowering my heavy arms. Percy Jackson, whether he knows it or not, knows where to hit me where it hurts. That's what I tell myself I'm so unsettled about. That's what I force myself to believe.

I pretend that my heart—in no way, shape, or form—missed a beat when Percy laughed.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: As I've said before, this was just an assignment for school. I'm not sure if I'll continue it or not - definitely as it's original form (Vi and Cole) - but I'm not so sure if I will with Percy and Annabeth yet.<p>

At any rate, tell me what you think.


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